


The Game's A Foot

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case File, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 04:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/845508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gives his brother some bad news.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Beth H for a beta faster than a speeding bullet.

THE GAME'S A FOOT

CHAPTER ONE: NOVEMBER 2009  
With some resignation, Mycroft watched his brother stride into his temporary office off Birdcage Walk.

"And just when my day had been going so well," he sighed. "What have you done now?"

"Nothing. Why are you sharing your office with these monstrosities?" added Sherlock, eyeing one of the two exotic life-size horses with riders without enthusiasm.

"It's less trouble than trying to move the wretched things. Besides, this room provides a useful bolthole between meetings." Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "You stink of bonfire - no, a house fire - and to judge from the state of your shoes you've been rolling around on filthy ground. There's a trace of dirt in your hair and blood on your shirt cuff. Are you hurt?"

"The blood isn't mine."

"I'm relieved to hear it. No, don't sit down. We may want to use that chair again. Have you killed someone?"

"Of course not. Could you get me off if I had?" asked Sherlock, diverted.

"That would depend." For a moment Mycroft felt a slither of fear that Sherlock might be using again. But to ask risked making a bad situation worse. Gregory had seen Sherlock recently and made no mention of the possibility - besides, Sherlock looked healthier than he had for years.

"On who I killed?"

"On my mood on the day. Really, Sherlock."

Instead of pacing back and forth like a caged beast, Sherlock stood by the far window. His very stillness drew Mycroft's attention because it was rare to see that febrile energy reined in.

"Is there a point to this visit?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock turned, holding his gaze. "Lestrade finally had an arson case. Charred human remains, except for a perfectly preserved human foot, still in its shoe."

"Delightful."

Sherlock snorted. "Spare me. You don't have a squeamish bone in your body. A gun was found at the scene, so the house had to be cleared until the gun was made safe."

"Is there a point to this recital? I should warn you that even I can't produce arson sites at will," Mycroft added absently, most of his attention on what was likely to be a tricky phone-conference.

"Lestrade and I were having a smoke outside the house, so I could watch the procedure. The door behind the Firearms Officer blew open, knocking his arm. The gun went off."

Mycroft had the oddest feeling, as if someone had given him a violent shove in the small of his back so that, for a moment, he thought he must have fallen from the chair. It was several seconds before he trusted his voice - before he was even certain if he could move his jaw enough to speak.

"How badly is he hurt?"

"The bullet grazed his side, that's all. Though there was more blood than I would have expected. To judge by his swearing it must be quite painful. By the time Donovan had stopped questioning me a police constable had driven Lestrade to the nearest hospital, on the grounds it was quicker than waiting for an ambulance."

"You were unharmed?"

"Of course," dismissed Sherlock impatiently. "Lestrade probably saved my life. If he hadn't knocked me out the way I would have been shot in the abdomen."

A muscle jumped in Mycroft's jaw and he seemed suddenly to have aged ten years. "I must remember to thank him. You didn't feel the need to go to the hospital to check on his condition?"

"Why? The wound's trivial. But I thought you should know," Sherlock added abruptly.

Mycroft stared through him. "Yes."

"I don't understand why he risked his life to save mine," Sherlock added fretfully. "Is it because you and he - ?" His hand moved in a brief, descriptive arc. It was the closest he was prepared to get to discussing his brother's life with his detective.

Mycroft looked suddenly tired. "Don't waste your time looking for an ulterior motive. He seems to have spent his entire life trying to protect people."

Sherlock paused to consider the statement. "That must be wearing to live with."

To agree, as every fibre of his being wanted to, was to deny Gregory. He was the man that he was: stubborn, opinionated, protective, loyal and with a generous and loving heart, without which their relationship might never have survived. 

"Mycroft?"

He refocused to find Sherlock staring at him. As well he might. 

"My apologies," Mycroft said smoothly, "I have a complex phone conference in a few minutes. Is there anything else?"

"No." On his feet by this time, Sherlock hesitated. "That is... Apparently there will be an inquiry. Lestrade might be disciplined for taking me to the crime scene."

"I imagine he might," said Mycroft, in the same cool, detached voice. "On your way out, ask Anthea to come in."

 

Lestrade sat on the uncomfortable moulded plastic chair, hunched at an awkward angle because it reduced the burn in his side. His shoulder hurt whatever position he assumed. Bloody typical that he couldn't have landed soft on Sherlock. To add insult to injury, he'd ruined his new overcoat - the one Mycroft had chosen for him - and it fitted better than anything he'd ever owned before. 

He shifted slightly where he sat, then grimaced. It was ridiculous that a graze from a bullet could hurt so much. Next time he saw a film where the hero leapt over a tall building after being shot he was going to ask for his money back.

Perhaps he'd pulled a muscle when he fell because he hurt from his neck down to his waist. Thank God for Annie's cooking. If he hadn't put on those few pounds the bullet would have nicked a rib instead of his 'love handles'.

A&E was packed and judging from the amount of hawking and coughing going on around him, it would be a miracle if he didn't come out of here consumptive. And if the screaming kid behind him didn't stop kicking the back of his chair... 

The inquiry into the shooting was going to be a pain. He would be in deep shit for letting Sherlock on the scene in the first place, never mind so close to a firearm. And he hadn't been hurt badly enough to garner any sympathy.

Which was a good thing, the not being badly hurt.

Except, fuck, it did. Bloody typical that it should happen when Mycroft was home. Maybe he'd be called away until it healed up, Lestrade thought hopefully. It was terrible timing, just when he'd finally convinced Mycroft that his job was safe.

He blinked tiredly as it sank in how close they had come to disaster. Although he didn't understand how the trajectory of the bullet could have caught him where it had. Lestrade fished for his phone, remembered where he was and put it away again. If he moved out of the hospital to make the call he would lose his place in the queue and he'd been here two hours already, with at least the same amount of time to go. He would just forget about it and go home and see to the graze himself but for the fact Newton had wangled a promise out of him that he would get it seen to by a professional. Still, the lad had meant well. It was lucky Donovan was like his ex, not one to make a song and dance about things. He couldn't stand being fussed over.

Not that he ever had been, of course.

Blimey, now he was getting maudlin.

He wished they didn't make hospitals so hot. He was sweating cobs but couldn't face trying to remove his overcoat just when the pain in his side had settled down a bit. He hoped he hadn't cracked the bone at the top of his shoulder. Luckily they had plenty of ice at home.

Donovan was sharp enough to check the trajectory before IPCC got there.

Oh, God. He was going to be in deep shit with them. Not to mention with Mycroft for not taking better care of Sherlock.

It would be nice if the kids would stop screaming. Still, if they could make that much noise, odds were, they were okay.

He could murder a cup of tea.

His head beginning to nod, Lestrade was almost dozing off when he became vaguely aware of movement beside him as someone got up, and someone else immediately took their place. 

A few moments later the faint scent of sandalwood, vetiver, bergamot and oud wafted across to him, an oasis in a miasma of less pleasant aromas.

"Oh, fuck," muttered Lestrade, venturing a glance to his left.

A stony-faced Mycroft sat beside him, staring straight ahead, his left leg crossed over the right, his black shoes gleaming.

Lestrade braced himself.

Mycroft didn't even glance in his direction, never mind say anything. He neither spoke, nor acknowledged Lestrade for the next twenty eight minutes. There had been a moment or two when Lestrade wasn't sure if he was hallucinating, until he saw the small puddle of water under the metal tip of the umbrella.

"A security tail from your people wouldn't have made any difference," Lestrade said, when he could no longer stand the waves of disapproval emanating from Mycroft.

"I was going to call you," he added, a short time later. "But I thought it would be best to wait till you got home and could see I was fine.

"Look, it isn't as if I got shot on purpose." Lestrade sneezed, a cut-off exclamation of pain escaping him. He fished awkwardly for a handkerchief that was already smeared with blood and mud. 

A pristine white handkerchief, beautifully pressed, appeared in his line of vision.

Lestrade reduced it to a soggy bundle of mucus before shoving it in the pocket of Mycroft's overcoat. "I thought you were supposed to be in some highly important, totally boring phone conference."

"I was." Mycroft finally condescended to look at him. Anything less loverlike than his expression was difficult to imagine.

"I don't know why you bothered coming here if all you're going to do is sulk. Honestly, Mycroft, it's nothing." Lestrade knew he was beginning to babble without being able to do anything to stop himself. Shock always hit him a few hours after the event, rather than right away. He kept seeing himself lunging at Sherlock and not making it in time. And then having to break the news to Mycroft.

"A word to the wise. The moment the word 'honestly' is mentioned, suspect the worst."

The soft, cutting voice was unfamiliar, and Mycroft's expression as coldly uninformative as it had been the first day they met.

"How did you find out?" Lestrade asked.

"As it wasn't from you that hardly matters."

Only then did it dawn on Lestrade that Mycroft wasn't just sulking. He was coldly and completely furious.

"Did you seriously imagine I wouldn't notice the bullet crease in your side? That I wouldn't - " Mycroft stopped, compressed his mouth and fell silent again.

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked, touching him on the arm.

"If you believe deflecting a question with a question will work with me you haven't been paying attention."

"And yet that snotty expression and tone of voice is so effective," snapped Lestrade.

Mycroft's mouth closed like a steel trap over whatever he had been about to say, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he studied his feet.

By this time Lestrade was spoiling for a fight - pain never brought out the best in him - but just before he let rip, he noticed that the umbrella, tightly held between Mycroft's white-knuckled hands, was vibrating slightly.

Lestrade rubbed his eyes and took another look at the man beside him - Mycroft who, when working, seemed not to have a nerve in his body. Today it was obvious that was an illusion.

Fuck. He'd been so busy worrying that Mycroft would blame him for Sherlock almost getting shot that he'd never paused to think what it must have been like to get the news.

Lestrade exhaled softly. "I'm sorry," he murmured, easing closer to that rigid figure. "I know I should have called you but I didn't want you to worry. Let's go home. I'm knackered."

"You're also in pain, in need of a tetanus shot and that wound cleaning by someone who possesses more medical supplies than a squashed tube of Germoline." Mycroft rose to his feet. "This is ridiculous. What you're doing in this hell-hole in the first place is a mystery. Come with me. And don't even think of arguing."

"I see that dictatorial streak of yours still needs some work."

"Gregory..." Mycroft took a perceptible breath. "Please," he said simply.

"That's cheating." Aware that they had begun to attract some attention from the English speakers around them, Lestrade got to his feet with a grunt of pain. "It's fine," he said quickly.

"Of course it is. Wait."

In a few deft movements Mycroft had fashioned a sling from his scarf which, after an initial flare of pain brought Lestrade immediate relief.

"Now, will you allow me to look after you, or must I beg? Because I will, if that's what it takes." Mycroft made no attempt to whisper.

"Don't you dare," hissed Lestrade. He speeded up to escape their interested audience. "You're shameless."

"No, just worried to the point of imbecility," said Mycroft simply. "When Sherlock came to my office to tell me I couldn't speak for a moment."

"Oh, love, I'm sorry. Bloody hell," Lestrade added, as they left the hospital to discover it was thundering down with rain. "I don't think your trusty umbrella's up to withstanding this."

"My car will be here in a minute or two. It's somewhere in this car park," added Mycroft absently.

"I can't believe Sherlock told you in person. He's improving. But then he must've known you'd be frantic."

Mycroft gave his first smile in some time. "I told you he liked you."

"I never cease to marvel at the number of ways you find to tell me 'I told you so'," joked Lestrade, even though he was convinced that Sherlock turning up in Mycroft's office had more to do with his feelings for his brother. He had the sense not to say so. "Though if you _are_ right, perhaps he'll stop calling me an idiot so often."

"I've always loved your optimism." Mycroft carefully tweaked up the collar of Lestrade's coat.

"I'm fine," said Lestrade.

"And when you obtain a medical degree, I might give that statement due consideration."

"I am sorry for nearly getting Sherlock shot," Lestrade said seriously.

Mycroft blinked, stared at Lestrade's earnest expression and sighed. "Gregory, I know you're fuddled by shock, but you can't possibly imagine I hold you responsible in any way. That wasn't why I was so...paralysed by fear. For Christ's sake, you could have been killed!" His roughened voice broke, then steadied. "You could have been killed," he repeated. "I knew I loved you, just not how much until I realised I could have lost you."

"Oh." A wave of embarrassed pleasure mixed with relief sweeping over him, Lestrade began to fidget, caught Mycroft's fond gaze and stuck up his chin. "What?" he said defiantly. 

"I didn't know you knew how to blush."

"It's probably a temperature," bluffed Lestrade, but he knew he must be smiling like a man besotted.

Mycroft rested the back of his hand on Lestrade's forehead. "That isn't beyond the realm of possibility. Ah, here's the car at last."

 

Traffic was heavy in the rain and Lestrade fell asleep within minutes, half-propped against Mycroft, who woke him only when they pulled up outside their destination.

"Where are we?" asked Lestrade sleepily.

"A short distance from Harley Street. Call it the Clinic. It's the small medical facility where my people are treated, should it be necessary." Mycroft eased Lestrade from the car, wincing almost before he did.

"Spy central? You don't need to hang around. Fatima can make sure I don't pinch the silver."

"Resign yourself to not getting rid of me in the foreseeable future," said Mycroft, as the door opened even before they mounted the four stone steps.

 

Lestrade surveyed the dauntingly well-equipped surgery.

"Don't waste time trying to save the wretched coat, cut off the lot," commanded Mycroft to the male nurse.

"No coat is worth this," he added to Lestrade.

"Should you be here?" said Lestrade, who was trying to hide his nerves. He hated hospitals. "What happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"Mycroft Holmes happened," said a thin, prematurely lined man as he came into the room. "Good afternoon, Detective Inspector. I'm Bond. James Bond," he added, with a degree of resignation. After scrubbing up, he pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

Lestrade blinked, then glanced at Mycroft, who nodded in confirmation.

"Unfortunately my parents weren't fiction readers, or film goers. I sometimes think my name is the only reason Mycroft makes use of my services."

"Only partly." As Mycroft intended, that reassured Lestrade, who was being cut out of the last of his clothing.

"I liked that coat," he said sadly.

"I'm more partial to what's beneath it." Mycroft gave a hiss of surprise when Lestrade's jacket fell away to reveal his shirt, blood-soaked at the shoulder, as well as his side.

"Ah, it's easy to see why your shoulder is so painful. It's the second bullet that's done the damage," said Bond, as he slit away the last of Lestrade's shirt. "Apologies for the discomfort. Still as you can, please."

"Second bullet?" said Lestrade sharply.

"Mmn," said Bond. "You were lucky it caught you high in the shoulder. It was almost a through and through. It's torn the muscle, of course, but nothing that will inconvenience you for too long."

"There was a shooter at the scene? Where's my phone? My team will still be out there," said Lestrade, twisting round.

"Leave that to me?" said Mycroft, already at his side, a cold hand on Lestrade's uninjured arm.

Because it was framed as a request, Lestrade nodded, knowing that Mycroft could make things happen far quicker than he could. "Fine. Don't look so worried. You heard James Bond, it's a through and through. Make sure the bullet gets to my people. It'll need bagging and signing for to preserve the chain of evidence."

"I'll call them in a moment. We'll be working closely together on this case," added Mycroft, braced for storms. Not for the first time, Lestrade surprised him.

"I won't waste my breath arguing but Donovan will have a massive strop. Don't under-estimate her because of it."

"We won't. I'll be here when you get back."

"Get back from where?" frowned Lestrade, only now appreciating that he must have missed a conversation somewhere down the line.

"Having that bullet removed."

"It will only require a Local but I would prefer to work in more sterile surroundings," said Bond, with a pointed look at Mycroft. He murmured something to the nurse, and they both left the room.

"You don't have to wait. I'll be fine," Lestrade said into the silence.

Mycroft nodded. "And you're well aware of the respect in which I hold your medical knowledge. Don't be a dick, Gregory." He bent and kissed him delicately on the cheek, just before the nurse returned and invited Lestrade to hop on board the wheeled stretcher.

 

Mycroft had always disliked waiting but this was outside his experience. He had a strong, if untypical, desire to punch a hole in the wall. Instead, he paced the small room he had been allocated because the idea of remaining still was intolerable.

Gregory's safety was in someone else's hands and all he could do was direct the bloody investigation. As if...

Bond had assured him it was the simplest of procedures but...

Caring really was a fucking liability, he thought, shivering because he couldn't seem to get warm, even in this centrally heated room.

He slumped on to a chair and buried his face in his hands, the ridiculous mantra 'Let him be all right' replaying in his brain as if on a loop.

 

Comfortably seated on an armchair at beside their bed, Mycroft picked up his mobile. "What now?" he snapped.

"Sir, you have a meeting with the PM at - "

"Cancel it. If the matter's vital, we can skype."

"I don't think he knows how," said Anthea, sounding unusually harassed.

"Then one of his advisers can teach him, they must be good for something, even if I haven't discovered for what. The subject isn't open to debate. What progress has been made on tracing the sniper?"

"None as yet, sir."

"Then I suggest you tell everyone to work harder."

Mycroft cut the call without ceremony, then sat staring at Lestrade's gently snoring figure for so long that his vision began to blur.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is displeased and Sherlock visits the sick.  
> Lestrade survives both events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Beth H for her beta.

CHAPTER TWO: NOVEMBER 2009

Lestrade padded across the room, wearing nothing but a sling, and a dressing over his side. Mycroft was slumped in an armchair beside the bed, fast asleep; beside him sat a bottle of brandy, a drained glass and half a packet of Chocolate Hobnobs - sure signs of stress. He stroked Mycroft's stubbled cheek until he twitched and woke, alert almost immediately.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, except for the fact you weren't in bed with me and you'll get a hell of a crick in your neck in that position. Shift yourself," commanded Lestrade. "It's nearly two in the morning and we both need our beauty sleep."

Mycroft paused in flexing his stiffened neck to give him a look of the deepest suspicion. "Why?"

"You have to go back to saving the world, and I need to go in and make my statement. I'm surprised no one's called about it already. Oh, God, you're the reason why I haven't heard anything yet, aren't you," Lestrade added with resignation. "What have you done?"

"Given that we've taken over responsibility for the case, you'll give your formal statement to Balasha - Anthea Penny, I should say - with Detective Superintendent Robinson in attendance, later this morning, in one of our temporary offices a five minute walk away. David will accompany you."

"Blimey, I bet Robinson's thrilled about that," said Lestrade, his grin betraying him. "Will you be there? And don't just sit there looking decorative, start undressing so we can go to bed."

"I won't be there," said Mycroft, his voice muffled because he had bent over to unfasten the holster at his ankle, before removing his shoes and socks.

"Nice try," said Lestrade, when Mycroft was vertical again. "And spare me the innocent look, it's not remotely convincing."

"I thought I might listen in. If you wouldn't object?"

"I get a choice?" 

"Of course. I admit I would like to - for my own peace of mind."

"I'd like to give you a piece of mine, pinching my case like that," said Lestrade moodily, before he sighed. "Fine. Listen away. Why is David coming with me?"

"Yesterday, you were shot. The second bullet may have been intended for you, or for Sherlock, or the Firearms Officer. It may even have been a random shooting. Until we can establish who, if anyone, is at risk, all three of you are under guard. The police will look after Adair - "

"Who?"

"The Firearms Officer, Robin Adair. Thirty one, unmarried, no children. We will be guarding you and Sherlock. Don't bother arguing. I'm not asking for your permission." He was of course, because he had no option where Gregory was concerned.

"I can't have David tagging along when I'm at work."

Mycroft gave Lestrade a patient look. "First, you're on sick-leave, and likely to be so for at least two weeks. Second, you know perfectly well you and your team wouldn't be allowed anywhere near this case because of your personal involvement. You were shot, they were all witnesses. If the police were still in charge of the investigation a new team would already be working on both cases. This way, Balasha can - and will - keep you informed of every development."

"It's my case," growled Lestrade. An incautious gesture made him wince.

Mycroft pulled off his boxer briefs and stepped through his abandoned clothing to retrieve Lestrade's medication. After checking the label, he handed Lestrade a pill and glass of water. The fact Gregory took it without complaint told him all he needed to know.

"I'm aware of how much work you've dedicated to this case. I appreciate your frustration. We're awaiting results from forensics and ballistics but it's already obvious from the trajectory that your shoulder wound came from the gun the Firearm's Officer was handling."

"I thought as much. Clumsy sod. He should have known to take more care. He was probably too busy trying to flirt with Donovan."

"It's likely the IPCC will probably want to take disciplinary action against him. At the very least he'll be transferred."

Lestrade nodded. "Can't argue with that. He came damn close to killing a civilian."

"The IPCC will want to question you tomorrow, once Balasha's spoken with you."

Lestrade looked suddenly tired. "I bet they do."

"The fact Sherlock was on site won't be a problem," Mycroft assured him. "Everyone is aware you were both assisting us. The IPCC will investigate only the accident, not the presence of a civilian."

"Blimey, you're worth your weight in sawdust. I was a bit worried about that," said Lestrade in fine understatement, before his faint frown returned. "Protecting me won't compromise your position?" he checked.

Mycroft touched him gently on the cheek. "The only reason you would be considered anything but a hero by the IPCC is because of your patience with my scapegrace brother. You're my personal lie detector. You know I'm telling you the truth," he added with deliberation. 

Lestrade visibly relaxed. "Yeah. That's all right then."

He wandered over to the bathroom door, watching as Mycroft cleaned his teeth, had a pee and washed his hands, before following suite.

"I think I should sleep in the spare room," said Mycroft, as he watched Lestrade ease on to the bed and try to find a position of comfort.

"Too much thinking, that's your trouble. Just get in. I hate being on sick leave and I'm likely to get very grumpy, so best not to aggravate me more than necessary."

Mycroft kissed the top of his head. "Consider me duly cowed. What if I bump into you?"

"I'll swear, kick you and we'll settle down again. I sleep better with you beside me," Lestrade added, with a simplicity which ended the discussion.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you. But first, I'm sure I can make you more comfortable - I've had some practice at making pillow houses. Sherlock, aged four," Mycroft anticipated.

"Just be grateful he never got into physics," said Lestrade, giving a grunt of discomfort as he made another incautious move.

"How do you know he wasn't? And please stop trying to be helpful," Mycroft added with exasperation.

Lestrade gave him the finger. "The world's still turning. Sherlock would have blown it up just to see if he could." 

Mycroft gave a huff of amusement before applying himself to making Lestrade more comfortable. After some rearrangement of pillows taken from the spare bedroom, Lestrade was propped up in such a way to avoid pressure on his shoulder, or scraping the gouge on the other side of his body.

"Wake me before you have to leave in the morning," mumbled Lestrade, who was having difficulty in keeping his eyelids open by this time.

Mycroft murmured something soothing and vague.

Lestrade opened his eyes. "That would be a yes?"

Mycroft took the line of least resistance and agreed.

 

Secure in the knowledge that Gregory was safe, two floors below the temporary office he was occupying, Mycroft was able to apply himself to work to some effect, while wondering how he had managed to acquire such a large backlog after only twenty four hours away. Engrossed in thought about a particularly knotty problem, he was slow to look up as the door to his office bounced on its hinges, announcing Sherlock's arrival.

The flustered assistant gestured ineffectually and Mycroft made a mental note to replace him.

"Here to announce another case of defenestration?" Mycroft asked Sherlock without concern.

"I _knew_ you wouldn't be able to keep your long nose out of my business. You've waddled in and stolen my first arson case!" stormed Sherlock, a faint flush to his usually pale face.

" I have some small interest in Gregory's well-being," Mycroft pointed out.

"Gregory? Who's Gregory?"

Mycroft abruptly gave his brother the dubious benefit of his full attention. "If that's a joke, it's in poor taste."

"I never joke," said Sherlock impatiently - and inaccurately. "Who is he?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. You didn't know his first name?" There was a warning note to Mycroft's usually mellow voice.

"What possible interest would that be to me? Now what?" added Sherlock edgily, resenting Mycroft's ability to reduce him to a squirming thirteen year old with nothing more than the force of his personality.

"It seemed conceivable that you might have some slight interest in the man who saved your life at some cost to himself, even if you have none in my partner."

"There didn't seem much point. I didn't expect him to last any longer than any of the others," said Sherlock frankly. He stood in front of Mycroft, on the opposite of the table Mycroft was using as a desk. "I don't understand how you can be so... _involved_ with someone so _ordinary_ ," he burst out. Then, as if only just appreciating the implication, he had the grace to look away, fighting the urge to retract or amend what he had said.

The silence extended for several seconds longer than was comfortable, during which time the unleashed barbarism of Mycroft's expression slid back behind the controlled, prim mask he assumed for his working day when in public.

"Sometimes you astonish even me," said Mycroft eventually. "I suggest you leave." He had yet to raise his voice but then he had never needed to in order to make his point.

"You're not going to defend him?" Pinned by those winter-sky eyes which, as so often, judged him and found him wanting, Sherlock fidgeted nervily, realised what he was doing, and forced himself to stop.

"From the petulant ramblings of a spoiled child? Don't be absurd. And don't contact me again until your manners have improved."

"If I'd known this was all it took to get rid of you - " began Sherlock, only for his voice to fade away as Mycroft rose slowly to his feet.

"In just over a week you'll be thirty three years old, yet you continue to behave like an ill-mannered adolescent. Your few showy successes as an amateur sleuth seem to have gone to your head."

Sherlock opened his mouth, met that cold, unrelenting gaze, flushed and swept out of the room.

 

The interviews had gone even better than Lestrade had dared hope and he was heading back home in time for lunch, privately conceding that he would be glad of a break. He felt knackered, not least because he hadn't taken a painkiller that morning, wanting to ensure he had a clear head when he faced the IPCC. As a result, his shoulder felt as if someone was sticking a red hot poker through it and wriggling it around with every step he took.

Aware of David at his shoulder, he wished he hadn't been stubborn enough to refuse a lift, though it was ridiculous that a five minute walk should be such hard work.

His heart sank as he approached the house and saw Sherlock lounging against the front door.

"Len not in?" Lestrade asked, fishing awkwardly for his key.

Sherlock sighed and picked Lestrade's inside pocket with some flair, before opening the door and ushering in Lestrade. "He wouldn't admit me," he said sulkily.

"If you've offended him or Annie..."

"I haven't said a word to them. Though they've never liked me as much as Mycroft. You look terrible."

"Life will take an upturn once I've had a painkiller." The second flight of stairs beginning to seem like the ascent of Everest, Lestrade gritted his teeth and just stopped himself from clutching his shoulder, even though Sherlock had bounded on ahead to the master suite.

Lestrade abruptly speeded up, hoping like hell there was nothing embarrassing lying around and arrived in the bathroom in time to see Sherlock flushing away his medication.

"You stupid - " Lestrade sagged despondently back against the door jamb, then winced and straightened again. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"They're addictive," said Sherlock fiercely.

"Which is why I only had a three day supply. Bugger. I could've really used one right now." Aware that had sounded perilously close to a whine, Lestrade made his way back to the bedroom, heeled off his shoes with some difficulty, and eased on to the bed with a sigh of relief. "If you want to case the joint, I'm beyond stopping you."

"Do you have any paracetamol?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"No."

"You'll be fine. The best thing is to keep the mind busy. Have there been any updates on the case?"

Lestrade opened his weighted eyelids, regretting that he lacked the energy to kick Sherlock in the bollocks before he threw him out on his ear, and only then recognised Sherlock's thinly veiled desperation. He hadn't given Sherlock's reaction to almost being shot a thought. Which might account for why he wasn't the only one in need of something to dull the pain.

"A fair bit actually. Be a mate and make some tea and something to eat, I'm starving. Feed me and I'll tell you everything I know."

His nap ended when Sherlock barged back into the room with a tray laden with improbable combinations of food. It occurred to Lestrade that there might be something to that power napping lark because he felt something approaching human again.

Because Sherlock looked as if he might burst with impatience, Lestrade ate the leftover salmon, couscous salad, toast, honey and apple pie in between his recital.

"Mycroft's assistant is doing a bloody good job of running the investigation. Donovan can't stand her," he offered.

Sherlock gave a faint grin. "Anthea goes up in my estimation. Details. I need details."

"DI Smethers's SOCO team had made a preliminary sweep of the living room before my lot got there. They swear there was no Deeds box under what was left of the sofa. Which is borne out by forensics. The box was placed there after the fire."

"By one of your SOCOs?"

"Much as I'd like it to be that new bloke Anderson, why would they? They had no way of knowing I'd call them in."

"I forgot that," Sherlock allowed, fidgeting. 

"Smether's lot are all being questioned but so far at least two of them can always alibi another."

"Excellent, your brain is starting to work again."

"Up yours," said Lestrade, more cheerful with some food inside him. "Have some cheese and biscuits. This Brie's almost running off the plate."

Sherlock began to forage in an absent-minded kind of way. "The gun was obviously a lure placed to get the Firearms Officer on site."

"Exactly. Which means Mycroft can stop having the pair of us followed."

"Good luck with that," said Sherlock. "He's very protective of you."

Lestrade gave him a shrewd look, beginning to suspect a conversation had taken place about which he knew nothing. "As I am of him. This tart thing is amazing. I don't remember seeing that in the fridge."

"I raided Annie's kitchen," said Sherlock calmly.

"Thanks for the warning," said Lestrade. While welcoming, Annie was inclined to be territorial about her kitchen. "Anyway, there would have been a window of opportunity for someone to plant the box in the twenty or so minutes when neither SOCO team were in the house. That said, with all the personnel floating about someone could have pulled on a suit and mask and odds are, no one would have noticed for the few minutes it would have taken them. You know the bags some of them carry - easily big enough to hide the box. And it was a difficult site to secure with limited manpower and the waste ground at the back."

"Why was the Fire Officer targeted?"

"That's still being investigated. He juggles multiple girlfriends, so sex would be my first guess. It's looking increasingly likely that the shooting has nothing to do with the fire or the body parts cases. But you understand why neither of us can work any of them at the moment?"

"You were the one who got shot."

"You're a witness, Sherlock. And they haven't conclusively ruled out the possibility you were the intended victim. There's no way you'll be allowed back on site, so don't even think about it. And if you're going to insult Mycroft, you can piss off," Lestrade added, an edge to his voice.

"I wasn't. Well, nothing I haven't said before. You saved me from being shot, possibly fatally. Did you do it because of Mycroft?" Sherlock asked abruptly, his gaze sliding around the room.

"You silly sod, of course I didn't! Bugger, now you've made me spill my tea. Get rid of this tray, will you. Honest to God, sometimes I wonder about you. Is this why you came round?"

"Not entirely," said Sherlock, moving the tray onto a chest on the other side of the room. "You owe me ten pounds."

"How come?"

"You bet me ten pounds I would upset the Fire Officer. I didn't. Though you did."

"How?" demanded Lestrade, with a trace of indignation.

"By causing him a lot of extra aggravation when you got shot. The fire crew were held for questioning for several hours and they were due to go off-duty."

Lestrade muttered to himself before saying, "I'll have to owe you. I'm not sure where my wallet is."

"I could find it."

"Just stop pacing, you're making me giddy. The Fire Officer identified the accelerant as lighter fluid in a condom."

"Explain," commanded Sherlock, towering over him.

"You light a candle and suspend a condom full of accelerant over it. When the rubber burns, the accelerant drops onto the flame and whoosh. They found traces of wax in two places in the living room, and again in the basement. The, as yet, unidentified victim was dead before the fire, cause unknown. No ID, they're still waiting on the DNA results, which will take a few days yet. You should know you can't hurry science," Lestrade added, when Sherlock hissed with impatience.

"Are they sure the intact foot belonged to the charred remains?"

"Not until they have the results. But the foot had been frozen. There was so little left of the body that they may not be able to get a match."

"Wonderful. The body parts cases are infuriating." Sherlock abruptly changed tack. "How efficient is a condom over a flame as a means of starting a fire?"

"Funny you should ask. Apparently it's variable. Which suggests whoever chose that method's had some practice - a serial arsonist perhaps. Which again may have nothing to do with the body parts cases."

"But could still be linked to the shooting," said Sherlock thoughtfully. 

"Exactly. I'm half glad to be off the investigation." Lestrade had the sound of a man trying to convince himself.

"I'm not. It could be months before you get another case of arson. The fire starter could be completely unconnected to the body parts cases. It could just be a lucky amateur. Probably male, mid-teens to mid forties," added Sherlock.

"Mmn. It's all far too convenient for my liking, suggesting that the fire is connected. And if the shooting was sexually motivated all bets are off where the gender's concerned," said Lestrade grimly.

"I need data!" said Sherlock with frustration. "There's nothing for it, I'll just have to do some experimenting of my own. I need condoms. The equipment to construct a tripod - though a simple nail in the wall might suffice, lighter fluid, a stop watch..."

"Candles and matches."

"I've got those back at the flat."

Lestrade straightened painfully fast. "Sherlock Holmes, if you even think about fire raising in your flat I'll arrest you myself. And don't think I wouldn't. That place of yours is a fire trap at the best of times - and some of the other tenants aren't as nippy on their pins as you are."

"I'm not completely irresponsible," said Sherlock haughtily.

Lestrade snorted. "I don't know why you haven't already been kicked out." His eyes narrowed when the younger man gave a betraying twitch. "Sherlock?"

"I managed to pay off the complainers," he said sulkily.

"Don't tell me any more. I'm not a well man," said Lestrade, trying not to laugh. "I'm presuming Mycroft doesn't know about this?"

"It's none of his business!"

"You keep telling yourself that. I won't tell him unless he looks in need of cheering up," promised Lestrade, earning himself a glare. "So if your flat's out, where are you planning to conduct your experiment? Oh, no," he added, wondering why he'd been so slow on the uptake. "You are _not_ going to set fire to our garden."

"Don't be ridiculous, I've no intention of doing so. Just of starting a fire. It's there or one of the parks."

"You try starting a fire in a park and you'll be arrested. All right," Lestrade sighed, "the garden it is. But if you damage anything, you replace it. Any mess, you clear it up. No leaving it for Len, understood?"

After a sulky pause Sherlock gave a hard-done-by sigh and conceded the point.

"Len will have nails, and anything I need for a tripod," he said, brightening. "Annie will have candles and matches and Mycroft has lighter fluid. All I need are condoms." He gave Lestrade an expectant look.

"Embarrassed to buy your own? You'll find a boxful in the cupboard in the bathroom," Lestrade added with resignation. In truth, it would be a relief to get rid of what would undoubtedly be a ten year supply - except for the out of date factor, of course.

Sherlock returned a short time later and gave Lestrade a decidedly odd look.

"What?" said Lestrade, on the defensive.

"I never expected to have to ask, but are either you or Mycroft suffering from satyrisis?"

"Just take the damn things. I had an accident in the chemist and had to buy the lot, all right."

Sherlock gave him an amused look. "It seems I'm not the one embarrassed about buying condoms."

"Piss off," growled Lestrade. "Oh, and don't forget to warn Len what you're planning."

 

Lestrade heard a noise and was just about to swear at Sherlock when he realised it was Mycroft standing above him.

"Oh, good, 's you," he mumbled. "I was afraid you might be Sherlock coming back."

"He's here?"

Lestrade woke up a little faster. Mycroft's silky tone never boded well.

"He just left. That is - " Lestrade glanced at his watch and pulled a face. "Six hours ago. I must've dropped off." 

"That explains the voice mail I had from Len, telling me not to worry about the fire alarm going off," said Mycroft dryly.

Lestrade tried and failed to look intelligent.

"I knew you were lying first thing this morning, when you claimed to have enjoyed a good night. You slept through the fire alarm?"

"Seems like. I gave Sherlock permission to try an experiment in the garden."

"So I gather. Unfortunately, Len took an interest in what Sherlock was doing and the pair of them got carried away. Suffice to say, Annie isn't happy."

"Serves Sherlock right. But I'll steer clear of her until the dust settles. Thanks for the warning. Have you and Sherlock had another argument?"

"No. But I'll be having a word with him, just the same. You're in pain," Mycroft added abruptly.

"A bit. I was shot. It's only to be expected for a day or two."

"Can you take another painkiller now?"

"Ah. Sherlock flushed them," said Lestrade, because there was no way he could bluff Mycroft about that.

"He did what?" The 't' cracked out like a pistol shot.

"Relax," soothed Lestrade. "He didn't try to nick them. He was worried I might get addicted."

Mycroft absorbed the information in silence, then nodded. "That was untypically responsible of him, if typically over the top. When did you last have a tablet?"

Lestrade looked vague.

"Gregory..."

"Last night," he admitted. "I wanted a clear head for the IPCC."

"But I told you there would be no problem."

"And now I believe you. Do you have to work?" Lestrade added, as Mycroft fished out his phone.

"No, I'm calling Bond. I want him to take a look at you."

"Doctors don't make house calls these days."

"You obviously don't know the right doctors," said Mycroft absently, before he wandered into his bathroom to take the call.

"Bond will be here in thirty minutes," he said, on his return.

"I never thought I would have James Bond in my bedroom."

"Don't get too excited, I'm not leaving you alone with him."

His eyes heavy with pain, Lestrade managed a grin. "A threesome yet. I don't need a doctor."

"There's dried blood on your shirt, where the dressing is situated," said Mycroft quietly.

"No need to look so tragic. I had a bit of a struggle getting out of my jacket, that's all. Honestly. "Will you go and see Sherlock tomorrow?" Lestrade added. "While he's playing it cool, he's not used to being shot at. And you're all he's got. Except I've got you and he isn't used to sharing."

"What?"

Lestrade frowned. "I don't think that came out right. What I meant to say was, he's used to coming first and last with you. Have you even asked how he is?"

Mycroft gave a derisive sniff. "I can just imagine his response if I was foolish enough to try."

Lestrade had the sense to keep quiet.

"Given that the only times he comes to me are when he wants something..." Mycroft's voice trailed away when he remembered that Sherlock hadn't wanted anything the previous day. He looked up to see Lestrade watching him, a faint smile in place.

"Just don't say you told me so," warned Mycroft.

"Spoilsport. Go round and see him. He was edgy. Very edgy. And he's done so well at staying clean."

Mycroft sighed and sank onto the edge of the bed, his hand on Lestrade's thigh. "I get so tired of being the adult. And now, just to prove my maturity, I'm whining," he recognised wryly.

"Only a little bit," comforted Lestrade, linking his fingers with Mycroft's. "What did the pair of you argue about? Or rather, what did he say?"

"I don't propose to repeat it," said Mycroft briskly.

"So it was about me. It must have been. You let him insult you with impunity. He won't have meant it. Unless he was calling me an idiot, of course. Thinking about it, why don't you get equally frustrated with us lesser mortals?"

Mycroft shook his head in a pitying way. "You must think I'm really gullible to fall for that. I suppose I'll have to go to that hell-hole he occupies and eat crow."

"Can I watch?"

Mycroft looked long-suffering. "Whose side are you on?"

Lestrade grinned.

"A foolish question," Mycroft accepted. "It would be best if I see him alone. He isn't inclined to be forgiving where I'm concerned."

"Bend down," commanded Lestrade.

"Why?" asked Mycroft, although he was already doing so.

"Because I want to kiss you and I don't have to energy to lean up. You're a good brother, and don't let him ever tell you otherwise." 

Mycroft was too busy kissing him back to reply.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I discovered today that this chapter had disappeared into the ether when sent off to Beth H a couple of weeks ago.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to her for such a superfast beta.

CHAPTER THREE

NOVEMBER 2009

Lestrade woke just after ten in the morning, sluggish with sleep. As he struggled to sit up without aggravating the wound in his shoulder, he found the note which had been perched on his chest, bearing the now familiar crabbed handwriting, in fine black ink, which was such a nightmare to read.

'I tried to wake you before I left, but what you mumbled bore little resemblance to Ian Dury's _Wake Up and Make Love With Me_.

'DO NOT leave the house, exert yourself in any way, or remove this sling.

'And now you've forced me to resort to capital letters. Is it any wonder I'm losing my hair.

'M'

Lestrade was still smiling as he ambled into the bathroom. His good mood evaporated when he realised a shower was out of the question while he had to keep two lots of dressings dry.  After an unsuccessful struggle to fasten plastic over them, he had an unsatisfactory strip-wash, by the end of which his shoulder was aching fiercely.

Lestrade's mood further soured when Donovan called to tell him that DI Carsons, the most inefficient tosser in the history of the Metropolitan Police, would be taking over the body parts cases until he was back from sick leave.

　

Sherlock hauled open the front door to his flat, just after seven in the morning, his dressing gown fluttering with the speed of his movement. He immediately tried to slam the door shut in his visitor's face.

"What do you want?" he demanded skittishly, when the door bounced off the side of Mycroft's polished shoe rather than closing.

While he had come here unwillingly, and only because of the promise he had implicitly made to Lestrade, Mycroft's resentment dropped away when he recognised too many elements of the unhappy teenager who had finally turned to drugs for the peace he could find nowhere else.

"To apologise," he said simply. "In my concern for Gregory, I over-reacted. Though I would appreciate it if you would refrain from trying to burn down our garden again."

Sherlock wandered back inside the flat, which was the closest he usually came to issuing an invitation. "It was an accident. I never did finish the experiment. Len..."

"Gets over-enthusiastic. I know."

Mycroft stepped warily into the living area, avoiding the bottle of acid on the carpet and the three boxes of live maggots, some of whom were set on escape. He fished a card from his waistcoat pocket. "This laboratory is linked to the London Fire Brigade. They're expecting your call. There's very little they don't know about methods of fire raising."

The card disappeared into a pocket of Sherlock's dressing gown with a flick of his pale fingers.

"Don't forget to take your luckless victim out for a decent meal before you visit the laboratory. Not only will you probably learn more in a social setting, but you'll have a better chance of being invited back." Mycroft took out his wallet and handed over a healthy supply of fifty pound notes, which disappeared just as quickly into the same pocket as the card.

"What's this really about?" demanded Sherlock.

For once Mycroft told him the truth - or at least part of it. "Helping Greg - Lestrade," he amended, because he didn't want to fall into another argument when Sherlock again failed to remember Gregory's name.

The temperature in the room verging on the tropical, Mycroft unfastened his coat and hung it on a hook on the back of the front door. After spotting some maggots colonising the sagging sofa, he cleared a space on the coffee table, placed one  of the newspapers littering the  room on the sticky table top and sat down.

"Comfortable?" enquired Sherlock dryly.

Having deliberately surrendered his advantage of height, Mycroft looked up at his brother from the position of a supplicant. "I need your help," he said simply.

While obviously torn between the response he wanted to make, and the chance of some interesting work, Sherlock bought himself time by putting on the kettle. "To do what?"

"Lestrade's on mandatory sick-leave for at least two weeks. His doctor tells me he's not to exert himself for the next week. As if that wasn't bad enough, his body parts cases are being assigned to an idiot. Which he will have heard by now. He needs mental stimulation if there's to be any hope of stopping him from returning to the site of the shooting. He already has copies of everything pertaining to the body parts cases. I wondered if you would be prepared to go round and spend a part of each day going over everything with him in case there's a lead which has been missed."

"Boring. There will be nothing to find. I don't miss things."

"I appreciate that. Which is why you would be doing me a great favour."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft looked down for precisely the right amount of time before meeting Sherlock's assessing gaze. "G - Lestrade is sleeping badly. I believe he's suffering flashbacks to the shooting. It would reassure him if he could see you were alive, well, and as annoying as ever. It's hardly to be wondered at, of course. Even serving policemen aren't used to be shot at. Nor are you," he added with deliberation. "My concern isn't just for Lestrade."

Sherlock swung away. "You worry too much. I expect I could fit him in, for a day or two," he added, at his most casual. "I make no promises, mind."

"Understood." Mycroft studied his brother's back. "It seems there might be the opportunity for regular lab work at Barts, which would help to regularise your position there." That it would also make life less complicated for the nervous Dr Hooper, he had the sense not to add.

Sherlock sniffed but continued to make them both tea. After a glance at his brother's preoccupied expression, and noting the marks of sleeplessness, he got out the packet of ginger nuts he had bought the day before and opened them, without making a single crack about Mycroft's weight.

Mycroft smiled where it wouldn't show and took a biscuit. Even as a small boy Sherlock had insisted on paying his debts, if not in conventional ways

　

Mycroft eased into bed just before eleven that night, but despite his care Lestrade snuffled and mumbled something incoherent, already stirring awake.

Mycroft placed his hand over Lestrade's heart. "Go back to sleep. Everything's fine."

Lestrade took his usual amount of notice. "Put on the light. You're looking very smug," he noted, when he had stopped squinting.

"There's good reason for that, with you lying beside me. How's your shoulder?"

"Still attached. Feeling a bit like it's being gnawed by mice," Lestrade admitted, when Mycroft continued to look at him. "You've had a good day, haven't you."

"Very," Mycroft confirmed, with unmistakable satisfaction.

"Which means you got your own way again."

"I need to snatch my victories where I can, given how often I'm thwarted at home," Mycroft explained.

"Shameless." Lestrade rubbed one hand through his hair.

"What was your day like?" asked Mycroft, resisting the urge to kiss him for looking ridiculously appealing.

"Odd," said Lestrade, frowning into the middle distance. "Sherlock came round and stayed until about five. He said it was to see if we'd missed anything in the body parts cases.  An event so unlikely it has to be your doing."

"I went to see him this morning, as promised."

Lestrade gave Mycroft an approving pat. "It obviously went well."

"Far better than I had expected," Mycroft admitted wryly. "I suspect we may both have said more than we intended at our previous meeting."

"Sherlock apologised?"

"Oh, I do love your optimism. Of course not. Or not in so many words. But he made tea, and fed me biscuits."

"And agreed to babysit me," said Lestrade, proving that he was more awake than he appeared.

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. "And it was all going so well up to this point."

Lestrade eyed him with affection. "I'm glad you're on our side, we need all the devious sods we can get. Don't think I haven't realised that this way you get to keep an eye on both of us, while we're stuck indoors, out of the way of would-be snipers."

"I refuse to apologise. Besides, this will give you the opportunity to make the review of the body parts cases that you've been talking about."

"Talking's about all I'm good for where those are concerned," sighed Lestrade. "These bloody pills turn my brain to porridge. Still, Sherlock said he'd be back tomorrow, so whatever you said to him must've been impressive. While he was obviously bored, he wasn't so edgy today."

"Excellent. Though I saw immediately why you were so concerned about him. I should have spotted it myself."

"Not necessarily. You're too used to Sherlock. Having quasi-family to worry over is a new experience for me. I would have given anything to have a family of my own when I was a kid. Not that I've ever really understood how they work," admitted Lestrade.

"Does anyone? Sherlock and I aren't typical."

"No kidding. What?" Lestrade added, when he recognised Mycroft's hesitation.

"I don't want to interfere, or to be appearing to pry, or to try to push you into a decision you're not ready to make, but - and only if you wish it - I could see if it's possible to investigate your childhood. Your mother. But only if you wish it."

Lestrade blinked in surprise. "I don't remember her," he confessed. "I know I was six when they found me beside her body, but I don't remember anything - except being afraid. As soon as I had the chance to wangle it, I read her police file. She was a junkie. And on the game. You'd think I'd have _some_ memory of her. But I don't. And I should, shouldn't I?"

"Not necessarily. You know as well as I do the tricks shock can play on the memory."

Lestrade nodded and rubbed his hand over his face. "Can I let you know about any investigation?"

"Of course. It was a bad idea on my part."

"No, it wasn't," said Lestrade immediately, because he hated the times when Mycroft still seemed wary and out of his emotional depth where their relationship was concerned. "You just want to make things right for me."

Mycroft looked pained. "What a revoltingly sentimental idea."

"Yeah. I can't imagine what made me think that." Unabashed by Mycroft's exaggerated expression of distaste, Lestrade linked their fingers. "Speaking of sentiment, do you know what tomorrow is?"

"Of course. It's our anniversary," said Mycroft promptly.

"I was going to say, your birthday. I count the island as our anniversary."

"I don't," said Mycroft, for whom an eidetic memory was often a mixed blessing.

"We'll just have to have two anniversaries then. Don't leave tomorrow before I've given you your pressie," commanded Lestrade.

"I'm hardly six years old."

"I know, but I want to see your face."

"You want to give it to me now," Mycroft recognised.

"Would you mind?"

"You're exhausted and I'm tired. I'll set the alarm for five thirty," said Mycroft with true self-sacrifice, as he flicked off the light.

While Gregory never whined, or complained, his childhood seemed to have been devoid of the usual celebrations. Oddly, his marriage didn't seem to have rectified that. But if Gregory wanted him to be surprised, then he would be surprised. He settled down under the covers and snuggled closer to Lestrade, wondering how he had ever managed a decent night's sleep during the decades he had slept alone.

"I expect you're absolutely knackered," said Lestrade into the darkness.

Mycroft forced his eyes open. Experience had taught him to mistrust that would-be casual tone.

"What?" he asked, just managing not to snap.

"I'd kill for a shower. I can't cover the wound at the back of my shoulder without help and Len's been off somewhere all day."

Thoughts of sleep abandoned, Mycroft flicked the light back on and got out of bed.

"You don't have to," said Lestrade without conviction.

"Don't push your luck," Mycroft advised him, before he gave a reluctant smile. There  were worse fates than sharing a shower with Gregory Lestrade.

"Here." Lestrade handed him a black refuse sack.

Mycroft took it without enthusiasm, his nose wrinkling at the smell. "What do I use to stick it on with?"

"Waterproof elastoplast. Be careful with the chest hair. I ripped a load off by accident this morning. Bloody agony it was. And now I've got a bald spot," added Lestrade mournfully, as he peered down at his chest.

Mycroft did his best not to smile. "So you have," he murmured. He stroked the tiny area with the side of his finger, before bending to mouth the nipple beside it.

A quiver ran through Lestrade, who cupped the back of Mycroft's head. "Don't."

"Don't?" repeated Mycroft, wilfully dense.

"Bastard. Don't stop."

By the time they made it in to the bathroom they both needed a shower.

　

Mycroft was fumbling for his phone even before he was awake enough to register that the ring tone was that of 'Happy Birthday'.

"Your early morning call, sir," said Anthea blandly. "The PM wondered if your eight o'clock meeting could be put back until 10.45, at Number 10."

"Yes. Cancel the car, I'll walk. Tell David I won't need him until 10.15."

Mycroft terminated the call and eyed his phone thoughtfully, before turning his head to see Lestrade beaming at him from the adjacent pillow.

"Happy birthday. Oh, and anniversary." Mindful of his injuries, Lestrade leant over to kiss Mycroft. Stubble rasped against stubble.

"What would you like?" asked Lestrade, moving so he could mouth Mycroft's navel. "Though I don't think I'll be up to anything too athletic after last night."

"I'm sure you won't be. And if you're stuck in that position, you've no one but yourself to blame." Mycroft's asperity might have sounded more convincing but for the care with which he helped Lestrade back up against the pillows. "Now you're vertical again, perhaps you'd care to explain how you managed to suborn my staff." It was a sign that even Balasha approved of Gregory - not that she would be so crass as to mention the topic.

"Uh huh. I'm no snitch."

"I'd love to know what you blackmailed Balasha with."

Lestrade cocked his head.

"It _is_ my birthday," coaxed Mycroft.

"Nice try but no cigar. I just asked her to help," added Lestrade simply.

"Perhaps I should take you to the negotiations next week. I trust that ring tone will have disappeared by the time I leave the house?"

"Already done," Lestrade promised him. "It had to be your work phone or you wouldn't have had it by the side of the bed. Now, your present. Only you'll have to get it, because I hid it under the bed. Well go on then."

Standing by the side of their wide bed, Mycroft soon realised he wouldn't be able to reach the parcel he could see, even if he crouched down. Flat on his stomach, and screwing up his face because, while soft, the wool carpet was irritating sensitive areas, he wriggled until he could just reach the package, while musing on the ridiculous things you did for love. The parcel was long, thin and heavy.

"I must leave things under the bed again. When I'm able to do you justice," Lestrade told him.

"What?" said Mycroft, who was too busy brushing fluff from his pubic hair to pick up on nuances.

"Come here. This much I can manage. Gotta be kissed on your birthday," persuaded Lestrade, sliding his hands over the backside whose wriggling contortions had left him glaze-eyed with lust, even if he wasn't in any shape to do anything about it.

Mycroft cupped the back of his head but instead of the kiss Lestrade had confidently expected, murmured, "Take your medication."

"If you want to play doctors and nurses, just say so." But Lestrade swallowed the pills with only a token grimace. "Well, open your present then."

To Mycroft's pleasure, his guess had only been half right. While it was a swordstick, it was skilfully disguised as a working umbrella.

"Not that you'll be able to use it as one," said Lestrade. "The balance is horrible when the umbrella's open but it was the best they could do, given the weight of the blade."

"Where on earth did you find it?"

"I had it made. There aren't many - strike that - there aren't any swordsticks disguised as umbrellas around. And there are a ridiculous number of regulations about buying swordsticks. This one isn't exactly legal," Lestrade confessed wryly.

"Even better."

Lestrade's grin widened, not least because there were occasions when Mycroft sounded uncannily like his brother.

"Careful," he thought to add, "the blade's - "

"Sharp." Mycroft's voice was muffled as he sucked the small wound on the pad of his thumb. "It's also a work of art. How on earth did you find anyone in the UK capable of something of this quality? This is reminiscent of the work still being done in Japan."

"One of the few advantages of my job is the variety of people you come across during an investigation. I knew Kezzie Lambert would come in handy one day."

"I'd like to meet her. This is exquisite." Being the man he was, Mycroft was examining every inch of it. The mechanism which released the blade responded with a silent retraction, before a silken thrust that was decidedly erotic.

"I just wish it was possible to take it to work. Unfortunately it would set off every metal detector in the vicinity. It's tempting though," Mycroft added wistfully. "It's a wonderful gift, thank you."

"I thought you'd like it," Lestrade said with satisfaction."Well, where's my anniversary present then? You have bought me one, I presume?"

"Spare me the big eyes. Of course I have. And only one," Mycroft added, to pre-empt any protest.

"Well done, Holmes. I knew you could restrict yourself if you tried," teased Lestrade. He felt ridiculously and completely happy. Impossible to remember that Mycroft had only been a part of his life for a year.

"Gregory?" asked Mycroft, unable to account for Lestrade's change of expression.

"Just trying to remember life before you. But enough soft-soaping. Give." Lestrade clicked his fingers.

Mycroft rubbed his nose. "I'm afraid you won't be able to enjoy it until your shoulder has healed."

Lestrade suddenly shivered. "Why's it so cold?"

"There was a power cut during the night. The house will soon warm up again."

Lestrade eyed him with suspicion. "How much sleep did you get?"

Mycroft, who had been on the phone until gone three, shrugged. "I'm afraid if we want to go out to celebrate, it will have to wait for a day or so. I'm likely to be working for most of the evening."

"At home?"

Mycroft nodded.

"You'll be here, that's the important bit. Better cheese on toast with you than something I can't pronounce in a restaurant - and I can wear jeans. Given how often you have to dine out for work, it's no wonder you don't enjoy it much when you're off-duty. Which you could have told me months ago. I'm easy." The smile on Lestrade's face stilled as Mycroft continued to study him.

"What?" said Lestrade, beginning to feel self-conscious.

"Nothing." Mycroft brushed Lestrade's just parted mouth with the side of his thumb. "Just... Do you have any idea how much my birthdays have improved since I met you? Here."  He took an expensive looking envelope from the top drawer of his bedside cabinet.

As Lestrade read the contents he turned into a ten year old boy in front of Mycroft's eyes.

"It's the car James Bond drove in Casino Royal. I checked." Mycroft looked so earnest that Lestrade gave him an exuberant, one-armed hug.

"The DBS V12. I know. Bloody hell! I can't believe you've wangled me a day on the race track with one."

"More of a rental for a week or so. The day on the track is so you can pretend you're on _Top Gear_."

Lestrade grinned, too thrilled to think of being embarrassed at having his guilty secret exposed.

"Then, presuming we can both get leave at the same time, there's a country estate I'll hire where you'll have a network of private roads on which you can drive at the speed the car was intended for."

"I thought we'd agreed about extravagant presents."

"I didn't buy the car," protested Mycroft, defensive because he had been sorely tempted.

"Hopeless," scolded Lestrade, laughing. "But best present ever. Not least because, as a DI, I can't afford to get done for speeding. And what's the point of an Aston Martin if you can't.  Although, I suppose if I knew someone with lots of influence..." He gave Mycroft a speculative look.

"I'm shocked that you would suggest that I would fix your speeding tickets," said Mycroft primly.

"Yeah, right. I suppose it was too much to hope for," said Lestrade with a philosophical sigh. "There's no point owning an Aston full time. I'd be lucky to get it out of second gear in London. But a week with you and an Aston Martin to play with - and I hope you're impressed that I got the order right?"

"More surprised," Mycroft admitted, straight-faced, which earned him a pinch on the backside.

 

oOo

"Sir, you know I rarely ask a favour of you," said Anthea, as she met Mycroft at the airfield.

"What a rich fantasy life you must lead," murmured Mycroft silkily. He was obviously in a good mood. "Name your heart's desire."

"And it shall be mine?"

"I hoped I'd taught you better than that. But I'll give the matter due consideration," he promised, as he got into the waiting car.

"Then will you _please_ give DI Lestrade more to keep him occupied while he's on sick-leave. He's driving me to thoughts of murder. He calls me at least half a dozen times a day  with 'helpful' suggestions, and to ask for updates."

"And were any of his suggestions in fact helpful?"

"Well, yes, but - "

"He's inclined to be a back seat driver," Mycroft conceded, taking pity on her.

Anthea gave him a speculative glance, her mouth betraying the faintest twitch.

He noticed, of course, and gave her a quelling look just before a call came in from the Chancellor, which saved Mycroft from having to admit that his chance of controlling Gregory, when he didn't want to oblige, was non-existent.

 

oOo

By the fifth day of his sick-leave Lestrade was feeling much better, apart from the odd twinge, but was unable to settle to anything, the thought of that fuckwit Carson mucking about with his cases a constant irritant.

In the normal course of events Lestrade would have enjoyed nothing more than some time off, but Mycroft was working twelve to fourteen hours a day and the weather was foul.

By the sixth day, he'd had enough. Despite the pouring rain, he headed out as soon as Mycroft left the house, and if he happened to meet any of the homeless who had reported friends missing that would just be a bonus.

His plan suffered a setback in under twenty minutes, thanks to his escort, and the phone calls from Mycroft.

Exasperated, Lestrade squinted into the rain that was driving into his face as he glared up at the CCTV camera above him, his phone held in a tighter grip than usual. "If you don't stop checking that I'm alive, I'll be forced to go home and rearrange all the books in the library by size."

The appalled silence lasted for a full four seconds. "Only a twisted human being would think of something so vicious," said Mycroft with feeling.

"I know," said Lestrade proudly. "Though what a man with an eidetic memory needs a library for..." he teased.

"It's the difference between reading a sex manual and having sex."

Lestrade smiled up at the CCTV camera that was pointing at him. "Fair point. I know Jane's following me but doesn't that spotty youth in a grey hoodie have anything better to do than trail after me?"

"Describe him," commanded Mycroft, in the tone it was easiest to obey.

"IC2 male, five seven, medium build, forgettable face, dark brown hair."

"No, he doesn't have anything better to do. Though I had hoped you wouldn't notice him for a while," conceded Mycroft with a sigh.

"Hope's cheap. Why do I need two guards?"

"You don't. He's a recruit in training. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is he?"

"Back to the drawing board," said Lestrade. "Bye. _Do not_ call to check on me again."

"Can you promise Anthea the same thing?"

There was a guilty pause. "I haven't been that bad, have I?"

"I'm sure your conscience can answer that," said Mycroft, in his smoothest tone.

Lestrade glared at the CCTV camera, then grimaced. "You could be right."

"Words for you to live by. Take pity on her."

"I'll do better than that. I'll take out a mortgage and bribe her with some of that chocolate she likes."

"You'll need a large mortgage," Mycroft warned.

"Have I caused problems for you?"

Mycroft's tone was patience personified. "Give that she works for me, not the other way around, of course not. Though, I confess, Balasha in a mood can be...challenging. I'll stop calling you if you go home. You might as well. Even your homeless contacts will be sheltering from this weather."

"Such a smart arse. It is freezing," Lestrade admitted. "I'll get a cab."

"There's one behind you," said Mycroft smugly. He had the sense to ring off before Lestrade could reply.

oOo

Almost resigned to the fact he wouldn't be able to keep Lestrade off the streets for much longer, Mycroft resisted the urge to contact Anthea about the progress of the Adair investigation because Lestrade was still making her life a misery.

He arrived home just before ten in the evening, tired after an eighteen hour working day, in which nothing of worth had been achieved. There was no denying that democracy could be highly inconvenient at times, even if he would defend it until his dying breath.

He secured the front door and swallowed a yawn as he placed his umbrella in the Victorian stand. Coat tossed on to the Jacobean chest, which sat beneath poster of Ian Dury and the Blockheads, Mycroft set off to find Lestrade, hoping without much expectation that his mood would have improved.

He eventually tracked Lestrade to his office, where he was sitting on the floor in the centre of an explosion of paperwork. From Gregory's expression, his obsessive review of the body parts cases wasn't going any better.

Lestrade looked up briefly and acknowledged Mycroft's arrival with a grunt, which an optimist might have taken for a greeting.

Mycroft felt his shoulders tense. The atmosphere was unpleasantly reminiscent of the day he had thought he had driven Gregory away over the clandestine purchase of the house. Close to exhaustion after too little sleep for almost a week, and with his usually well-hidden anxiety too close to the surface, he unconsciously braced himself, wondering what he had done, or not done, and how he could put it right.

"Did you want something?" demanded Lestrade impatiently.

"No. I can see you're busy," said Mycroft, wondering why his verbal skills so often deserted him with Gregory, at the times when he needed them the most.

"Yeah. I'm trying to track down the information Balasha's withholding from me, despite your promise that she would keep me fully informed about the progress of the Adair shooting. Then there's the evidence missing from these files that was here at the beginning of the week. Did you take it?" Lestrade demanded, his expression inimical, just before he took a deep breath, aware that his anger was misdirected. "I shouldn't have said that."

"No, you shouldn't," agreed Mycroft, his voice tightly controlled. "If you'll excuse me."

Lestrade swung round in time to see him head out the room. With a muttered "Oh fuck," he got to his feet so fast he almost tripped. He only saved himself from falling by taking his weight on his injured arm. His eyes watering, it was a minute or so before he was able to go after Mycroft.

He was worried how Mycroft would react to his bad-tempered outburst because they'd never had this kind of ridiculous squabble before. His fault, taking his frustration out on a safe target. While Mycroft thrived on heated arguments in his work, disagreements with people he loved knocked his emotional props from under him.

And whether he recognised the affect on Mycroft or not, Sherlock played on that far too often.

Lestrade found no trace of Mycroft in the house and for a moment was afraid he might have gone out again. Apart from that one, terrible quarrel about the house they never argued and until now he hadn't appreciated how much he valued that after the difficult last years of his marriage.

There was only one place he hadn't checked - the garden. Lestrade went into the darkened library again, but this time he checked the French windows, which he could now see had been unfastened. After a moment he spotted the deeper pool of darkness in the shadows close to the house.

Lestrade quietly let himself out, flinching at the immediate chill to his bare feet where the frost was coming down.

One shoulder propped against the support of the house wall as he smoked an illicit cigarette, Mycroft was listening to someone on the phone. On hearing Lestrade's approach, he half-turned. His face relaxed the moment he saw Lestrade's expression.

"A moment, please," he said to the phone, before adding to Lestrade: "It's fine. Go back inside. Your feet are turning blue."

"Not without you," said Lestrade stubbornly. "I'm sorry for being a bad-tampered prat. Please forget what I said, I didn't believe it for a second." Because he was only wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, he had already began to shiver.

Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette and nudged Lestrade back inside the house. "But the missing papers?" he asked, as he secured the French windows and re-set the alarm.

"Sherlock must've pinched them, which would have been my first and only thought if I hadn't been having a massive strop.

"We had a deal about smoking. Have I driven you back to cigarettes?"

"It's been a frustrating week. I have little patience with party politics at the best of times and these weren't even British."

Lestrade kissed him on the side of his mouth, pickpocketed Mycroft's lighter and showed Mycroft what he had done with a theatrical flourish of his fingers, before he slipped the lighter back into Mycroft's pocket.

"Did Sherlock teach you that?"

"Give me a break," scoffed Lestrade. "The boy's a mere beginner. Don't you dare tell him what I can do. He'll only blab in front of my team and it's not the example a DI should set. I am sorry for snapping so much over the last few days," he added, his smile fading.

"Given how little sleep you've been getting it's hardly to be wondered at," said Mycroft, tackling the elephant which had been in the room since Lestrade had been shot.

Lestrade pulled a face as they headed upstairs to the kitchen. "I suppose it was optimistic to think you wouldn't notice."

"But in character," Mycroft assured him, his hand in the small of Lestrade's back.

"Are you hungry?" Lestrade asked. "Only I'm starving and I bet you haven't eaten recently. Takeaway?"

"I'd rather pick at something, if there's anything in the fridge."

Lestrade opened the door. "This is Annie, we're talking about. You could feed the five thousand on what she's stocked in here. I hope you haven't kept anyone important hanging on the phone."

"Only Balasha. Speaking of whom." Mycroft turned his attention back to the phone. "My apologies. Continue with the briefing on the Adair shooting."

While Lestrade raided the fridge and set about constructing some generously sized sandwiches, Mycroft listened in silence, gave her his thanks and rang off. He helped himself to a slice of the ham Lestrade was carving from the joint of gammon.

"Balasha said that you already knew they found Col Moran's fingerprints on one of the torsos in the freezer. You're having flashbacks," said Mycroft, as he rootled for the jar of mustard.

Lestrade nodded. "It's bad enough to know the bastard's not dead, but that he should be involved in this. It doesn't make sense. He doesn't have the brains to run a large scale op."

"But an ideal muscle man. Mustard?"

"Please. Yeah, he'd be perfect in that role."

Mycroft sat opposite him. "What Balasha didn't tell you - because inquiries are still ongoing - is that Robin Adair is the step-son of my secretary at the Department of Transport."

Lestrade straightened where he sat, his sandwich drooping forgotten in his hand. "Was this shooting aimed at you through Sherlock?"

"While that point is being investigated, it's doubtful. I see her once every couple of months at most, usually less. And for minutes only. She has no idea that I'm not a part-time consultant. She works for about fifteen of us."

"Who's conducting this part of the investigation?"

"Balasha."

Lestrade gave an unimpressed sniff. "She's competent enough but - "

"Oh, let me be within earshot when you decide to tell her that," begged Mycroft, his eyes alight with amusement.

Lestrade pulled a face. "I suppose that was a bit condescending."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows in polite disbelief.

"Okay, a lot, but she isn't a trained investigator. Not for the sort of investigation that will stand up in court."

Mycroft let that ascertain pass unchallenged, "Nevertheless, you can't get involved in a case in which you and your team were involved as victim and witnesses. And glaring at me won't change that," he added mildly.

"I hate it when you're reasonable," growled Lestrade. "Even worse when you're right, of course. Nice try at changing the subject," he added, in something closer to his usual tone. "You'll be careful?"

"I won't be going near the Department of Transport until the investigation is complete - which is one bright note about this whole thing. While I know it's unrealistic to hope you'll stay indoors, will you let Jane drive you wherever you want to go? It would aid my concentration considerably."

Lestrade gave him a moody look. "That's emotional blackmail."

"It's also the truth," said Mycroft simply.

And because he knew it was, Lestrade sighed and capitulated. "Fine."

"I know it's far from being that for you. I don't make the request lightly."

"I'm just not sure why you're making it at all," Lestrade admitted. "The danger's minimal."

"I know. Before the shooting I spent far too much time thinking about you when I should have been concentrating on work. Since then - "

"You think about me?" For the life of him Lestrade couldn't suppress his pleased smile, which just kept growing and growing.

Mycroft gave a soft groan. "Oh, you'll be insufferable now."

"You'll cope," said Lestrade cheerfully.

The pleasure yet to fade from his face, he looked happier than when he'd learnt about the Aston Martin.  "I love you  so much but...it takes some adjusting to," admitted Mycroft, helpless before the softness unfurling in him that it should take so little to make Gregory look so happy.

"Believe it or not, it's the same for everyone. F'instance, I'm not used to having people worry over me. I'm not complaining, just explaining that I'm not used to it. I would kiss you but I've just eaten a pickled onion. Unless you have one too."

Mycroft shuddered. "Perhaps you could just keep that thought in mind. Speaking of kissing, I'm hoping to have this coming weekend off - Friday to Monday. I thought we could go away somewhere. I know you're close to bouncing off the walls after your enforced rest - "

"I've been that bad?" Only when it was too late did Lestrade realise he'd kissed Mycroft after all.

"Was it terrible?" he asked, just managing to keep his face straight.

"It wasn't completely revolting," Mycroft allowed, far better than Lestrade at the art of a poker face. "Preferable to marmite, or stale beer."

"Says the man who kissed me after eating anchovies. Here, have another sandwich. Did you have somewhere in mind for the weekend? If not, I've always fancied the Forest of Dean. Plenty of walking. Decent pubs for food."

Mycroft fished out his phone and called Anthea.

"Security won't have to stay in the house with us, will they?" asked Lestrade.

"Given your habit of wandering around naked, no."

Lestrade grinned. "I don't think anything could shock Anthea or Fatima. David, on the other hand..."

"Behave," said Mycroft, as he peeled a clementine.

They ate in a companionable silence.

"Did Balasha have any updates?" asked Lestrade, as he began to shell lychees, offering the small fruits across to Mycroft, who shook his head.

"Too much like eyeballs."

Lestrade stared pensively at the fruit in his hand, then ate it with gusto, before spitting out the large stone. "There's no elegant way to eat these. I would ask about the connection but I suspect Sherlock enters into it somewhere."

"Unfortunately, yes. Christmas, 1987," remembered Mycroft with an expression of distaste.

"And yes," he continued, "Balasha did have some minor updates. She said they've found two independent witnesses who claim to have seen a man answering Moran's description enter the house just before the fire."

"Where did they live?"

"Neither have a fixed address. One claimed to be squatting in the adjoining house. Given the lack of running water, he was far too clean to be convincing. He's being watched. The other lives opposite. He's an illegal immigrant, who has probably been threatened with deportation."

"I could..." Lestrade trailed off into silence when Mycroft just looked at him. "Sorry, I forgot. She'll investigate, of course. I'd better not ring her again today. She was a bit terse last time we spoke."

"Inexplicable," said Mycroft, helping himself to another clementine. "It's to be hoped she's suitably appreciative of your restraint. There's something she's been holding back. Information for which you don't have the necessary clearance."

Lestrade took longer than was necessary to swallow his mouthful of fruit. "Okay," he said slowly.

"I intend to tell you, if I have your word that you won't act on the information in your professional capacity."

"I don't want you to get in trouble," said Lestrade instantly.

Mycroft blinked. "With whom?"

"Your boss."

"Ah. I thought you understood," said Mycroft, after a moment.

Lestrade stopped licking lychee juice from his fingers. "Understood what?"

"That I have no superior, in that sense."

"What, none?"

"My last promotion changed a number of things, including the fact that I'm no longer answerable to any one particular individual, or organisation. The buck stops with me," added Mycroft simply. "Of course, in reality, it isn't quite that simple, everything is a balancing act." Lestrade thought about it. "Well that explains a lot."

Mycroft had the sense not to pick him up on that.

"Still, it's lucky you've got me to keep you humble," Lestrade added, because if he didn't make a joke of it he was liable to hide in a dark corner and gibber.

"I thought you'd realised some time ago," Mycroft said.

"No. Not really. I mean, I knew you had _a lot_ of influence but... What would happen if you lost the plot? Or your marbles?"

"There are various fail-safes," Mycroft assured him, disconcerted by the thoroughness with which Lestrade was studying him. "I shouldn't have told you."

"Of course you should. It's fine. I was just... I'm glad it's you, that's all. When push comes to shove, I trust you to do what's right," said Lestrade simply.

Disconcerted, as he hadn't been for decades, Mycroft rose hurriedly to his feet. "I'll make us another sandwich," he muttered, avoiding Lestrade's eyes.

But when the obviously flustered British Government came close to filetting his finger with the bread-knife, Lestrade got up and took over.

"So, this information? Does it get us any closer to resolving either case?" he added, matter of factly, because he hadn't intended to embarrass Mycroft.

"Quite the reverse," said Mycroft, sangfroid restored. "The intact foot belonged to a gentleman of interest to the security services. What little ankle bone that had survived from fire had cuts matching those on the severed foot. The discovery is highly inconvenient, as it strongly suggests the serial killer is interested in more than sex and drugs - and do not add 'rock and roll'," he warned.

"The bloke's that important?"

"While you'll never see him on a public list, he was the most wanted man in the world. There's been a race amongst the superpowers to be the first to capture him. It's a trifle embarrassing to have found him in east London - and worse, dead."

"What did he know that was so important? Can you tell me?" said Lestrade, as they sat down to resume their makeshift meal. By mutual agreement they split a glass of Talisker between them.

"I can't, because no one knew. For sure."

"Which is why it's so important."

"Exactly. He was a hacker. A loner, as far as we've been able to establish.

"Regarding the investigation into Robin Adair, all the indications are that he was shot over his failure to pay his gambling debts, rather than because of his extra marital affairs. That said, his wife is having an affair of her own. With an ex-Marine sharp-shooter. But he has a watertight alibi."

"Obviously the prime suspect then."

"One piece of good news for you. DI Carson has been removed from your cases. Sergeant Donovan will keep a watching brief until you resume duty."

"Oh, that's a weight off my mind," said Lestrade in heartfelt tones.

"I'm afraid that as far as the police are concerned, the hacker's body will have to remain unidentified," Mycroft warned.

"But his family!"

"Nevertheless." Without thinking, Mycroft reached for the packet of cigarettes in his pocket and lit one. When he saw Lestrade watching him with disapproval, he tossed the packet on to the table top.

"Just take one and stop looking so virtuous."

Lestrade lit up without argument. "I know you can never talk specifics about your work but far better for you to come home and moan about your rotten day in general terms, or the dickheads you've have to work with, rather than smoke."

"And your excuse is?"

"Tomorrow I'm buying us both nicotine patches. Agreed?"

"Agreed," sighed Mycroft.

"I know I've been bad tempered. And it's not just lack of sleep, or the reappearance of Col Moran in my life. Seven of those body parts belong to unidentified homeless people. I want to do right by them," said Lestrade earnestly.

"Did Sherlock say something to you?"

"Nothing more than usual." But Lestrade failed to meet Mycroft's gaze.

"The case is complex, not least because there are so many strands. Some people were killed for profit, others seemingly for sport," mused Mycroft.

For a moment he wondered what was wrong, before Lestrade refocused, his expression intent.

"I've been looking at these cases the wrong way round," he told Mycroft. "I assumed the methods of disposal were random when in fact they were anything but. The way some of the body parts were left, it was as if they _wanted_ us to find them. As if it was some bloody game. But they destroyed the hacker by a professionally started fire - it was sheer fluke his foot survived. The Russian mafia members were disposed of in water. Fortunately, whoever got rid of  them didn't understand the currents in the Thames, which is why parts were found before water damage had obliterated the tattoos, which enabled us to identify them. Their sex trafficking and drugs rings are already operating under new management - a management no one will talk about. It's quite something to be scarier than the Russian mafia. There's got to be a big organisation behind this. And money."

"You should mention this to Balasha," said Mycroft, who was in danger of falling asleep where he sat.

"Good thinking."

Before Mycroft could stop him, Lestrade reached for the phone.

"Moneypenny? Did I wake you? Sorry," he said, with obvious insincerity, "only Mycroft suggested I call."

Mycroft made a mental note to have a word with him about diplomacy.

oOo

"Get a move on. We can stop for breakfast on the way," called Lestrade, as he ran down the staircase, holdalls in each hand.

"Gregory, it's five in the morning," protested Mycroft, but he hurried after him, carrying another three bags.

"Which means we won't waste any daylight getting to the cottage. Didn't you notice what time it was before?"

"You cheated." Mycroft's post-coital glow hadn't survived the discovery that he had been woken at four in the morning.

"I mis-read the alarm," Lestrade admitted with an engaging grin. "Never mind, we can always have an early night if we crash."

Mycroft gave up at that point, not least because he hadn't appreciated quite how stir- crazy Gregory had been feeling.

"So we can," he said peaceably. "Do we really need all these things? We've only got four days." he added, when he saw how many bags were already stashed in the back of the Range Rover.

"Holiday homes don't always come with nice stuff. There's bedding, towels, toiletries and food."

"It still seems a lot."

"Hiking will give us an appetite."

"Did you remember to pack lubricant?" asked Mycroft.

"Wouldn't you bloody know it!"

Mycroft stopped Lestrade from dashing back inside with a look of smug superiority. "Fortunately I did."

"If we weren't in public I'd snog the socks off you."

"David's the only one awake to see," said Mycroft, glancing at the car parked farther down the otherwise deserted street.

"Uh uh. Let's get off before anyone decides to start a war or something."

"Why are you so enthusiastic?" asked Mycroft with a trace of curiosity. "The weather isn't likely to be any better in Gloucestershire."

"It doesn't matter," said Lestrade cheerfully. "The key point is that you won't be working. If it's fine, we hike, then get home and have sex. If the weather's horrible we stay in and have even more sex. That's a win win in my book. In you get."

Mycroft made himself comfortable in the passenger seat. "Drive," he commanded with a lordly flourish.

Despite the early hour, the roads were already busy. They were just approaching the Chiswick Flyover when the call came in. Five minutes later they were heading back to central London, so Lestrade could question Kenny Hodges, a twenty seven year old man with learning difficulties, who had been found on the waste ground close to the burned out house, with a holdall containing frozen packages holding three hands.

"If Balasha's right about the level of his learning difficulties - and I'm sure she is - his interviews need to be conducted by someone with experience if his evidence is to stand up in court. And, of course, to ensure he isn't so frightened, or confused, that we don't learn anything of use," said Lestrade, his expression intent as he drove with a speedy precision.

"Which is why she rang you, of course."

"She said Kenny hasn't got any family, so I've told her how to organise a responsible adult, who'll be  present during the interview." The relaxation on his face a thing of the past, excitement almost crackling from Lestrade.

"This will take a while," he warned Mycroft. "You're sure you're okay with losing our weekend?"

"You put up with my hours and the ensuing cancelled plans," said Mycroft mildly. "This could be just the break-through you've been hoping for."

"God, I hope so. I presume Balasha will be listening in, given the possible connection to the Adair shooting."

"Ah, about that. She'll be otherwise occupied - which is why I was able to take the weekend off. If you won't object, I'll pose as her assistant and listen in." Mycroft made the suggestion with a degree of caution because he wasn't sure how receptive Lestrade would be to the idea.

Lestrade spared him a quick, amused glance. "Checking up on me?"

"I had hoped to watch you at work one day. David can do it, if you'd rather I didn't."

"Don't be daft. But I'll tell you what I'd tell Balasha, you have a watching brief only. Despite his adult size, though odds are he'll be shorter than most, Kenny is a young child. He'll be confused and scared right now. Though Newton Wanduragala should be with him any time soon - he loves kids, has two of his own, and is both patient, and non-threatening," Lestrade added.

"Understood," said Mycroft.

Lestrade smiled. "Yeah, you do, don't you. Thank God for that. It saves so many difficult conversations. I like the idea of you meeting my team.  But how do we keep you under the radar?"

"I'll be 'Anthea Penny's' assistant, Michael Hones. The appropriate ID is on its way. No one will spare me a glance, particularly in this outfit." Mycroft gave the black jeans Lestrade had talked him into wearing - having bribed Len to buy them - an unenthusiastic look.

"Unless they're checking out your arse. Not to mention the fact you've got legs all the way up to your armpits. It's lucky you skipped shaving this morning, that will help. Take out your contacts and wear your glasses, and my cap." Lestrade hummed happily to himself for the rest of the journey.

 

Much to Lestrade's relief, Sally Donovan was too preoccupied to spare the casually dressed 'Michael Hones' much attention, beyond the fact he was a necessary evil to be kept in his place. And Mycroft seemed to have perfected the art of not attracting unwanted attention - it was probably handy in his line of work to be under-estimated.

It was almost nine in the morning before the responsible adult arrived. Lestrade's team took the opportunity to welcome him back with genuine enthusiasm, before Donovan sent them back to work.

Stood outside the family room, which had been set up as an interview room, so it would be less intimidating for Kenny, Lestrade looked up impatiently from the file he had been flicking through. While informally dressed in ancient Levis, walking boots, and a crimson sweatshirt, he was still very much in command of his team.

"Did social services have anything on Kenny?" he asked.

Donovan gave the tablet she held a quick, unnecessary glance. "Only till he was eighteen, because he and his family were supposed to be moving out of London. He has Down's Syndrome. Now twenty seven. IQ of 50. Height five foot one, overweight for height. No police record, or major health problems. Mother's dead. Lives with his dad, who owns his own butcher's shop, which the team are checking out."

Interrupted by a call, Sally was grimacing when she turned back to Lestrade. "Kenny's dad's shop went belly up over a year ago - he went to work at Morrisons on their butcher's counter, but stopped turning up for work just over a month ago. Dakers is getting a home address from the supermarket."

Lestrade sipped the tea he had been handed, conscious of Mycroft tucked safely behind him, out of harm's way. Only when it was too late had it occurred to him that not only wasn't Mycroft armed, but that he was also without security. Though if he wasn't safe amongst his team...

"What happened to his shop?" he asked.

"Unknown."

Lestrade turned to Mycroft. "Mr Hones, will you want your own SOCO team involved?"

"It might expedite matters," Mycroft said. "Thank you, Detective Inspector."

"Call me Greg," he said with an untrustworthy grin, because in all the time he had known him Mycroft never had.

The faintest quirk of Mycroft's mouth told him that he was, as usual, ahead of him.

"Greg," he said obediently.

Despite his preoccupation with work, Lestrade shivered, distracted by that slightly roughened voice, even though he knew that was due to the cigarettes Mycroft wasn't supposed to be smoking.

In need of a distraction, he fished out his wallet. "Sadie, you've got kids. Nip out to Sainsbury's and stock up on sweets and crisps. Also a drawing pad and colouring pencils. And maybe some toys for a kid of eight."

He glanced around. "Recording gear all set? Excellent. I'll introduce myself to Mr Carpenter, the responsible adult, and we'll make a start. This is likely to take a while. As Kenny's used to Newton I'll take him in with me." He glanced at Sally. "You'll coordinate ops as I get information from Kenny. No interruptions, okay. Right, let's get started. Mr Hones?"

"I'll listen in with Sergeant Donovan." Mycroft seated himself in front of one of the TV monitors with every appearance of comfort.

　

Ten minutes later Lestrade was chatting easily to Kenny, as they shared a KitKat.

"I swear the boss could charm the knickers off a nun," said a pink-cheeked Detective Constable, who to Mycroft's jaundiced eye didn't look to be old enough to shave.

"It's called being good at his job. Something you wouldn't know much about," snapped Donovan. "And if you've got time to waste, you can get us both a drink. Mr Hones, what's your poison?"

　

Lestrade emerged during one of Kenny's many bathroom breaks. "So, this Arty bloke who befriended Kenny. White, shorter, thinner, and younger than me, with brown hair and eyes. So we shouldn't have any trouble finding him," he added sardonically.

"We're going through CCTV footage from the last six months around the entire area," said Donovan. "I know," she sighed, when Lestrade just looked at her. "There's not much hope of anything useful but it's worth a try. Hey, it was a turn up about Kenny's dad being found dead in bed - or what's left of him after a month."

"Yeah. Kenny didn't want him to go away like his mum. He's been making him tea and beans on toast all this time... This Arty is obviously linked to the body parts cases, which makes him dangerous - and a scumbag for using Kenny to carry the parts around London for him. But there's a chance Kenny could ID him. Or that he might remember something else more useful. I don't want him being shunted off to social services. Sheltered accommodation isn't secure enough and he's so bloody trusting he'd go off with anyone who gave him a kind word. His dad being so over-protective has left Kenny really vulnerable. What we need is somewhere where he'll feel safe and happy, and that isn't in London." Lestrade was careful not to glance in Mycroft's direction.

His mouth twitched when he heard the resigned sigh behind him.

"We may be able to help," said Mycroft. "If I might have somewhere private to make a few calls."

　

By seven that evening, secure in the knowledge that his team would be working well into the night after Detective Chief Superintendent Richardson had reluctantly authorised the overtime, Lestrade took Mycroft and Sally to the nearest pub that served a decent pint. Because they were too early for the Friday night revellers, they had no problems getting a table.

"I thought Kenny did really well today," said Lestrade, after three thirsty gulps of his pint.

"You did, you mean," said Donovan. "Thank God, food at last. My stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

"After all the KitKats you scoffed?" said Lestrade, as he handed Mycroft a plate of eggs and chips. He'd ensured they had a table which enabled Mycroft to sit with his back to the wall and himself beside him. As Fatima and Julia had checked out the place before they arrived, he could relax.

While they all sorted out paper napkins, cutlery and sachets of salt and vinegar, Lestrade automatically swopped his sachet of brown sauce for Mycroft's one of tomato sauce, only to freeze when he saw Donovan watching them.

"I thought you guys already knew each other," she murmured.

"You don't miss much," said Mycroft, because Gregory had a rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights expression. To his delight, the chunky chips had been double fried, and were undoubtedly home-made.

"Detective," said Donovan flippantly. "Nice try at a diversion, sir. D'you want to come clean?"

"I'm afraid neither of us are accustomed to subterfuge," said Mycroft, his tone apologetic.

Lestrade only just stopped himself from looking up for the lightning strike that must surely follow.

"As you are aware, Greg as been seconded to help out with interrogation techniques. We met then. Since then I've been able to provide some useful information on occasion. These chips are excellent."

"That they are," said Lestrade, who wished he could claim Mycroft as his partner without risking blowing his cover.

"Hang on a minute," said Donovan, her smile fading. "If Mr Hones works for Miss Penny, he must be - "

"A researcher," said Mycroft placidly, as he dunked a chip into a plump egg yolk. "I can't remember the last time I was out from behind my desk. This has been an exciting day for me."

"Researcher?" said Sally.

"I also have a certain facility for languages," he said.

"Also not on trial," said Lestrade, who had recovered his composure enough to construct a chip sandwich.  "Pack it in," he commanded, his voice muffled by the size of the mouthful he had taken.

"My cue to get another round in," said Mycroft.

"Not for me thanks, I'll be getting back once I've finished this," said Donovan.

 

"Alone at last," said Mycroft, as he sipped the pint Lestrade had bought him when they first arrived.

"Are you sure David didn't mind taking care of Kenny?"

"Positive. In fact I had to stop him from taking him home to Alice and his family," said Mycroft wryly.

"I wonder where this Arty fits in?" mused Lestrade.

"You need more information. Which your team are currently gathering. There's nothing more you can do until tomorrow morning."

"Can we go home?" Lestrade asked abruptly.

"Of course. Why?" asked Mycroft, concerned that Lestrade might be exhausted, or in pain, after his long, tiring day.

"So I can fuck you through the mattress," murmured Lestrade.

"But your shoulder..."

"I'm not proposing to use my shoulder."

"In that case, let's go," said Mycroft with alacrity.

　

Lestrade ambled into the double shower stall after Mycroft and let the jets of water begin to work their magic.

"You've been looking very pleased with yourself since we got home," said Lestrade, arching his neck under the flow of the water.

"I confess that I've been a trifle concerned in the past that my work - not least all the dates cancelled and plans ruined - might adversely affect our relationship in the longer term. Today has reassured me. You love your work as much as I love mine. And, like me, you're a workaholic."

"You're thanking me for buggering up the weekend?"

"In a manner of speaking."

Mycroft kissed the back of Lestrade's neck, before he began to wash him from nape to ankles, luxuriating in the feel of the slick, soapy skin and the clear signs of how quickly Gregory healed.

Water slid down Lestrade's spine to nestle between the jut of his glorious arse, dripping from the tip of his cock, and matting body hair as he half-turned in what became an embrace.

"I'm glad you've met the team," Lestrade murmured, kissing Mycroft in a lazy kind of way.

Almost drugged with the success of the day, and sex and the contentment that came from being with Mycroft, he began to wash Mycroft with a gratifying attention to detail.

"I knew you were an excellent interrogator, but I don't believe I appreciated just how good until I saw you with Kenny," said Mycroft, as he stroked bubbles from the shower gel from the side of Lestrade's ear. "How would you feel about being seconded to do some training in interrogation techniques in reality?"

Lestrade's look of horror spoke volumes. "You can knock that idea on the head right now. Promise me."

"Gregory."

"Promise me you'll forget the idea, or you'll be celibate for the foreseeable future."

"Won't that punish you as much as me?" said Mycroft, just before the infelicity of the remark occurred to him.

Lestrade was still grumbling under his breath as they got in to bed. But he hadn't attempted to deny it.

oOo

By Monday, SOCO confirmed that the butcher's shop run by Patrick, Kenny's father, had been the murder site in five cases, and the site of disassembly in all of them.  Once cutting gear had got them through the reinforced and heavily padlocked door to the basement, they found two more freezers containing the heads relating to all the body parts. A number of finger prints were found, one set belonging to Col Moran. None of the others matched any held in records. Patrick had no criminal record in England, or Belfast, but was known to have been a Republican supporter in his youth.

Because he had better contacts, Mycroft set inquiries underway in Northern Ireland, in case they could identify 'Arty'.

oOo

Lestrade looked tired and grim-faced when he finally got home after his first day back at work. He opened his post while sipping the mug of tea Mycroft had made him.

"Bugger, the sale of the flat's fallen through," he announced. "Maybe I should rent it out after all."

"Ah, really? Because I suspect Fatima would leap at the chance to move in. Only she can't afford to buy yet. She has two cats and wants some outside space, in a flat off a main road."

"My set of keys to the flat are in the bowl in the hall. Let her have a good look round. Meanwhile, I'll contact the agent and get the flat off the market. Just so long as the rent covers the mortgage..."

"Perhaps Balasha could deal with everything for you," suggested Mycroft.

Lestrade gave a tired smile. "Good man. All the paperwork's with my solicitors. That smells good. You're cooking?"

"Lamb chops. Annie left me instructions," Mycroft added dryly.

"Have I got time for a shower?"

"Of course. Take a pair of my pyjamas."

More relaxed on his return, looking delectable in a pair of light grey silk pyjamas that were snug round the seat, if slightly too long for him, Lestrade picked at his meal, his attention clearly some distance away.

"Bad first day at work?" asked Mycroft, as if he didn't already know the answer.

Roused from his preoccupation, Lestrade looked up with a sigh. "It started off with the suicide of a teenage boy and went downhill from there. I'm getting a nasty sense of déjà vu with the case, though I need to wait for the results on whatever the poison he took was."

Mycroft gave an encouraging nod.

"Your spider senses might have been right about Sir Jeffrey's suicide," Lestrade added. "As with him, the suicide came out of the blue. Even more so in this case. Yet, as far as we can tell, they had nothing and no one in common."

"Ah. You'll keep me informed."

"Of course. Trust Sherlock to be off consulting. He's getting a fair bit of work these days," Lestrade added. "Someone's keeping an eye on him, I trust?"

"You think I should?"

His elbows on the table, Lestrade ate a section of the clementine Mycroft had peeled for him in a thoughtful manner. "You mean you're not?" he returned, relaxing.

Mycroft gave a pained grimace.

"I'd ask if he was doing anything illegal, but then you'd have to lie to me."

"Nothing too illegal," Mycroft assured him, just a little too fast.

Despite himself, Lestrade's mouth grinned. "Best not tell me any more," he advised.

Mycroft thought of Sherlock's spot of breaking and entering and could only agree.

oOo

DECEMBER 2009

"Morning, David," said Lestrade, cheerful despite the early hour and the sleet which was falling. "Come in and get warm. Mycroft had to take a call, so he's running late. You've time for coffee and breakfast, if you want."

"If it isn't too much trouble." David ruined the effect by the speed with which he followed Lestrade up the stairs.

"Help yourself to anything you want," said Lestrade. "You know where everything is by now." He reached up in to a cupboard for another mug and grimaced as his shoulder twinged.

He sat back down to finish his own meal and raised his eyebrows when David made himself a cheese and pickle sandwich. "For breakfast?"

"Elevenses in my case, I've been working since three," David pointed out, through a mouthful of sandwich. "How's the shoulder?"

"Fine," said Lestrade.

David looked sceptical.

"It is, most of the time. Look, he's only just stopped worrying, don't you dare say a word," said Lestrade.

David held up his hands. "You really think he won't have noticed?"

Lestrade sighed. "Fair point. How's Kenny settling in down in Cornwall?" he added casually.

"He loves it there. Poor kid never had the freedom to make friends, let alone the chance to be around animals. He's - " David ground to a halt, before giving Lestrade an accusing look.

Lestrade gave an unapologetic shrug. "I use the skills I have. Family okay?"

David was still talking about them fifteen minutes later, when Mycroft entered the room.

"I've been meaning to ask," said Lestrade, pouring out his tea, "any joy in getting any information on 'Arty' from your Northern Ireland contacts?"

"None. But given that he didn't have the consideration to be six foot eight, with an eye patch and a limp, it's hardly surprising. There are any number of white males of around five foot eight, with brown hair and eyes," said Mycroft dryly.

David gave a discreet cough before he held up his hands.

"Avoid humour until I've had at least one cup of tea," Mycroft advised him, as he helped himself to porridge.

"Good luck in court today," he added to Lestrade, who was shrugging into the jacket of his 'court' suit.

"Thanks. I'll need it. Have a good day." Lestrade paused to kiss the top of the seated Mycroft's head in passing, and with a nod to David, headed down the stairs.

oOo

By mid-December an obviously irritated Balasha informed Lestrade that Robin Adair had been shot in mistake for his identical twin, Ronald, who also had a gambling problem. He had been murdered the night before, down in Surrey, which is why they hadn't heard before. One of the regular players had been a Sebastian Moran.

"The plot fucking well thickens until we can track down the bugger," growled Lestrade, who was suffering from indigestion after eating a stale donut in lieu of a proper lunch.

"At least we've managed to identify all but one of the missing people, thanks to finding their heads" said Donovan. "And with no butcher, those responsible will have to resort to less dramatic ways of disposing of their victims." About to bite into her sandwich, she grimaced at the corned beef and tossed the sandwich into the waste bin at the side of her desk.

oOo

After dining out at the small Italian restaurant Lestrade had discovered by chance, he and Mycroft took a around about route home so they could enjoy the Christmas lights - at least he enjoyed them, while Mycroft seemed to enjoy watching him. As the clubs wouldn't empty for several hours yet, there were no drunks on the streets, just London, gearing up for Christmas.

"So even Christmas lights don't do it for you," said Lestrade, as he secured the front door behind them.

"I prefer London in its raw state," shrugged Mycroft, dropping his gloves and scarf on top of the coat he had abandoned on the chest.

"You don't like things prettied up?" Lestrade was amused to see that when Mycroft helped him out of his overcoat, he hung it carefully on the hatstand, before winding the scarf over a hook.

"No, I don't believe I do. But then honesty of any kind is a rare commodity in my line of work."

By mutual accord, they made themselves comfortable on their favourite sofa in the family room, despite the fact they now had several others available. Sprawled out at either end, Lestrade nudged Mycroft's calf with a socked foot.

"Christmas," he said.

"Why does that have the sound of a threat," mused Mycroft, as he looked up from the book he had been about to start reading.

"Quiet. I'm serious. I know neither of us have ever made much of it in the past, but this last year's been brilliant, and I'd like to celebrate," said Lestrade.

Mycroft set down his book. "What did you have in mind?"

"From your suspicious tone, anyone would think I went in for theme parties. I fancy living the cliché this year - with a Christmas tree, and the trimmings, before we jet off to wherever you've booked. It also occurred to me that Sherlock doesn't have anyone but you and that there aren't likely to be any cases to occupy him over the Christmas period."

Ahead of him, as usual, Mycroft gave a theatrical groan. "Really, must we?"

"Don't whine. Not if you don't want to," Lestrade added immediately. "It's fine. It was just a thought."

Mycroft noted the slightly flattened voice and the sparkle which had vanished from the brown eyes and began to take Lestrade seriously.

"Have you forgotten that Len and Annie fly out to her sister in Australia on the 16th for a month? We'll be fending for ourselves, which includes cooking our own trimmings."

"How hard can it be," said Lestrade, with the airy disregard of a man who had never tried.

"Well, in that case, I want presents - in the plural," Mycroft added pointedly. "Placed under the tree, and a roaring log fire, whatever the weather. But I draw the line at paper hats and egg nog."

"Agreed. It's disgusting stuff. You're sure?"

"You're not the only one who feels he should celebrate the last year."

Lestrade's smile was reward enough.

"And Sherlock?" asked Lestrade, a moment later.

"He'll probably say no," Mycroft warned.

"Don't sound so hopeful. On the other hand, he might not," said Lestrade, resolved to resort to blackmail if need be. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

The stern lines around Mycroft's mouth relaxed. "Which part?"

"Behave. All of it."

Mycroft paid him the compliment of thinking it through. "Actually, I've never had a home of my own before, least of all anyone to share it with. I rather think I shall enjoy it."

And so he did - particularly as Sherlock had hared up to Scotland in pursuit of some clue.

 

To be followed by Part Ten: 'Arrivals and Departures' 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My trusty beta pointed out that the following phrase is unheard of outside UK
> 
> sweating cobs means far too hot. Not used in polite company. Mycroft and Sherlock would never say it, Watson might.
> 
> Germoline is an antiseptic cream with analgesic properties, suitable for minor cuts etc.


End file.
